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Posts tagged ‘poetry’

Before Dawn

Deary Diary,

Poetry today.

 

Before Dawn

 

In the stillness of the morning dark,

Void of the call of any lark,

The trees are silent and waiting.

The day ahead could bring anything.

 

The quiet air surrounds me.

I am enveloped in what could be.

Before the bustle of the coming day,

I breathe the dark before sun’s ray.

 

I feel your presence all around me.

I see your face, but unclearly

Intermingled with the truth and pain,

Laced in love and joy within the stain.

 

I embrace it all to live what’s real,

To grow and die and truly feel.

Striving to be unhampered by

Superficial things that bind and tie.

 

 

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Blood Essential

Blood

Encased within

Flows freely

Within.

Pushed violently to every corner

By the pulsating heart.

Allowing

Breath and Movement,

Thought and Inspiration.

Creating uniqueness in its sameness.

Blood holding the Spirit within.

 

But blood without

Becomes hideous to behold.

It flows freely

Without.

Leeching the very essence of Being

In cascading rivulets freed by the slashed walls

That hold the Spirit within,

Still pushed violently by the pulsating heart

Until the heart tires

From no return.

 

 

 

 

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What? A Song?

Dear Diary,

This post is where Kellianne tries her hand at songwriting! I actually wrote this song many years ago. I often write poetry, but the following  has been my only venture into songwriting.  This is mostly because I do not hold the ability to create music to go with it. I hold much respect for those who can create haunting poetry AND set it to music.

 

DANDELION SEEDS

 

Silver petals fall from your eyes

Into a murky pool of lies.

Golden words trimmed in lace

Fast unravel into space.

Silhouettes of days gone by,

Shapeless pieces of how and why.

Hopes scattered across the floor

Disarrayed, trembling, at the door.

 

(Chorus):

Seems to be

It’s you,

It’s me.

Seems to be

It’s not you,

It’s not me.

Close your eyes and you still can’t see.

 

In a corner staring at me

Silent words echo loudly.

Twisting hands, eyes of dust

In the space between us.

 

(Chorus)

 

(Bridge):

Should I run, or should I stay?

Grasp at the pieces or blow them away?

Blow them away, blow them away.

Like dandelion seeds on a fall day,

Drifting softly to where they will lay.

Blow them away, blow them away.

Gone tomorrow, gone today.

 

(Chorus)

(Chorus)

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Breakable

Porcelain eyes

Reflecting

Turbulent skies.

The face is still.

Smooth gloss,

The features are marred not

By the passing storms

Within and without.

The cherry lips

Are chiseled into a parted, slight smile

Etched into a perfect expression.

Pretty, little doll.

You are fragile.

Easily shattered from an errant gust.

Shining pieces scattered.

But the jagged shards will be carefully gathered

And replaced again

With weary determination

And whispered sighs.

Smooth gloss, once more.

The disruption will not show.

Only perhaps a tiny chip behind the ear

And an inconsistency now

At the corner of that frozen, beautiful, half-smile.

Until the next fall.

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Garden Untended

Dear Diary,

Ah, the weeds that grow in a Garden Untended.

Didn’t I just yank a few out

As I was passing by the other day?

Certainly, pulling a couple should have helped?

But no.

Where did this ugly jungle come from?

Their roots are long and thick and coiled.

Where are my flowers?

Their delicate fragrance is not to be found.

I anxiously search to assure myself that they still exist.

There.

Deep within the mass of angry, threatening growth

Are the tiny, white wild flowers

Of hope and fresh joy

Waiting patiently amongst the chaos.

And so the work begins.

Each weed extracted is painful to

Endure with their thorns and clutching roots.

But, the Garden must be cleared

Of suffocating weeds

To allow hope and joy to grow and breathe.

And so I toil.

Didn’t I have to do this before?

Yes, I did. Now, again.

And I remember the beauty of the Cleared Garden

With only the fresh, white wild flowers

Released.

I must not allow my Garden to be ransacked thus, again.

I must be diligent

And recognize and banish the weeds

As they creep in before they own

My Beautiful Garden.

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Crimson

Dappled sunshine in the shade

Surrounded by brilliant rays

On a bright pool day.

I attempt to nestle in the slatted contraption

Of rubber and metal

That is a chair

In the warm shade,

And I bleed.

 

My children frolic and splash

And sometimes

Show me tricks.

I smile and wave.

They do not know

That my soul bleeds.

 

I am a constant to them

As the rustling palm trees above their play

As the kiss of the sun

As the embrace of the thick, warm air.

I study the enchanting puffs that are clouds above my day

And contemplate how

To staunch the flow

Before too much

Of my crimson soul

Soaks into the concrete

Below me.

 

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Stark and Staring

It slices unexpectedly through a mundane task.

Or a moment in the space between movements.

Or a quiet place of reflective thought.

Or by an occurrence of sudden similarity.

A Disturbing Memory

Stark and naked

Standing there, staring at you.

It is normally latched away

In a safe, dark box

In a corner of the mind used for such things.

It is better left there,

Than to wreak fussy havoc upon the present.

After the initial shock of its’ undesired appearance,

You eye it suspiciously

And fight against the familiar twist of pain it exerts

Out of place and time.

You sigh inwardly before beginning the struggle of wrestling it back into its’ box

In the dark corner

To be awakened occasionally by dreams

But

Has no business being here now.

It does not go away willingly.

It  flirts with the edges of your activities

Lingering,

Like a child that has been sent back to bed too many times.

Eventually, it will go back to sleep

With the others.

And you will continue to continue.

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